Chapter 1 — So This Happens Too – Part 1 (1)

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination. All characters are adults aged 18 or over.

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As usual with office drinking parties, the one I was part of wasn't much different. Dinner, followed by half-drunk stumbles to karaoke rooms or cozy pubs.

And then came the chaos—time slipping beyond control.

The liquor I'd proudly gulped down would punish my gut and head in the morning, but compared to the credit card receipt I'd soon have to face, that pain would feel trivial.

Why did I do it? Why? All I could do was stare at my bloodshot eyes in regret.

A new employee had joined our team, and after several canceled plans, we finally agreed to a simple dinner gathering among colleagues.

The place: a Japanese restaurant downtown.

It was still early November, but the wind blew like full winter, and a brief daytime sleet had already emptied the streets.

One by one, we parked, gathered, passed around drinks to soothe our hunger, and toasted to the new hire's success. The mood grew pleasantly loose.

As is typical in such places, there were older women—hostesses of a sort—who moved between rooms, serving and entertaining.

I watched as my team leader handed over service fees and the women accepted drinks without refusal. Seeing them drink willingly, I couldn't help but think it was crossing a line.

Still, it was just one drink, right? Everyone was married, or so they said. These were ordinary workers—men who drank, got drunk, and when drunk, longed for a woman's touch.

We decided on a nearby karaoke bar for the second round and got up to leave.

As we exited the restaurant, on a whim, I handed my business card to one of the hostesses, telling her to call me when her shift ended—just in case.

The karaoke room was unbearably loud. Girls hired by the hour belted out songs with zero skill.

Glancing at the time—around 10:30—I thought it best to leave.

I quietly grabbed my coat, but just then, my phone buzzed in my pants.

My wife never calls during office dinners or client entertaining. Unless someone's dead, she leaves me alone.

Half-dressed, I stepped outside to answer. It was that woman from the restaurant.

Her voice was sluggish, half-drunk, inviting me to meet. I hesitated.

But turning her down now would be like flipping the dinner table—rude, unforgivable.

I drove to the agreed spot. And she was there—impatient, desperate.

The moment she climbed in, she attacked my lips. This wasn't my style.

Was I really this easy to devour? Wouldn't that make it too cheap?

But what could I do? I'd parked at a neighborhood intersection.

Even on a cold night, streetlights and shop signs glowed brightly—no way to do anything here.

I gently calmed her, suggesting we move to a quieter place. The woman, already tugging at my pants, nodded silently without a word.

Funny, but I had to drive with my pants half-off.

Still, my lower half was warm. Her tongue work was beyond imagination.

I never thought I'd regret that my car wasn't automatic.

Why weren't those familiar secluded spots showing up tonight?

I pulled over near a quiet area and moved to the backseat.

She looked utterly satisfied, sucking at my lips. Her tongue moved downward with serious intent.

I gripped the front seatback with both arms, pushing my hips out.

I wet my fingers with spit and slid one into her anus.

She flinched, but her sphincter sucked it in like a vacuum, pulling my finger deep.

I wanted to taste her down there, but the sour smell turned me off. Even drunk, I couldn't ignore stench.

Sensing my hesitation, she quickly shifted, focusing intensely on my lower half.

Who would've thought such thrill awaited—just two hours after meeting, nameless?

Her tongue circled, teeth gently scraped, bit, sucked with loud juup noises. A dizzying time.

The space was cramped, a bit disappointing, but I forced focus.

She turned me toward the rear window and loudly sucked my anus.

It felt like catching a ride in someone else's car, watching scenery pass by the back window.

Occasionally, I saw an old woman hurrying by, or a stray cat darting.

My breath fogged the windows, then cleared. Sweat ran down my spine.

She wanted penetration, but I hesitated.

Was it because she wasn't someone I'd verified?

Still, alcohol's power was immense.

Before me lay a beautiful black forest, a void—how could I refuse now?

I rubbed my shaft lightly at her entrance.

Already soaked, her opening quivered open at the slightest touch, welcoming me in.

When two adults, seasoned in sex, come together, what need is there for pretty words?

I pounded into her wildly. Trying this way, then that. When she cried "good," I thrust harder.

Holding back climax after climax, I recalled every position I'd ever wanted to try.

Anal penetration wasn't as smooth as expected.

Alcohol had dulled my hardness, and her pained voice annoyed me.

Still, this was a lucky chance—how could I give up?

When her tongue touched my shaft again, courage surged. Strength returned.

Pushing firmly into the tighter passage, I felt warmth.

Gradually, slick lube oozed from within, making it easier.

This was beyond imagination—thrilling.

It was soft, tight, painful even, but indescribable—like suffocating pleasure.

My pace accelerated, grew stronger.

My mind went blank. I wanted to grab her hair, yank it.

I sucked her neck. I gripped her breasts.

She, bracing on the passenger seat with her back to me, arched her waist like a bow and offered her lips.

She was aroused to the point of saltiness.

Her nipples stood stiff, erect. Her breasts, not even a handful apart, had hardened.

My fingers were already buried in her forest.

I'd wanted a 2:1, but this would have to do. I was almost in tears.

My body neared climax—intensely.

Then, right at that moment, she pulled away. And said: Let's do it outside.